The Professor
by jrwilson
Summary: Hermione, Hogwart's Headmistress, calls Harry back to act as the the Defense against the Dark Arts professor. She is concerned that the deaths of the previous Defense against the Dark Arts professors weren't accidents.
1. Prologue, A Special Request

**Prologue, A Special Request**

... knock, knock, knock ...

Harry considered ignoring the thumping at his front door, he also considered disguising himself appropriately. But, he decided it wasn't really worth the effort. Instead he took a deep breath and resigned himself to the inevitable intrusion.

... knock, knock, knock ...

The door shuttered and then creaked as it opened under the force of a careful spell. A woman, dressed in a long robe streaked with purple hues swept into the small cabin embedded seamlessly in a wooded grove. It had taken her quite a bit of time and effort to find the place. Although the evidence of age deeply engraved her face, her eyes were still sharp. She spotted Harry and pursed her lips in a frown.

"I sent you several owls. The messages were sent back to me, unread."

He nodded. "I know what you want, and I'm not interested."

She sighed. "Look, I know it's been hard for you since Ginny died. I really do and I of all people understand. If I had the luxury of letting you continue to sink into depression, my god I would leave you to it, but I need you."

Harry frowned. "You don't need me. There're more than a few daredevil young wizards who would gladly fill the position."

"Think about it Harry. Please. I haven't had a Defense against the Dark Arts professor survive for an entire term in eight years. I don't want to be responsible for another death. This has happened before and it proved a dark sign. Don't you remember?"

"So you want me to serve as bait?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

Harry closed his eyes. "Hermione, I'm old."

"So am I," she hissed. "It doesn't stop me from serving as headmistress."

Harry paused. If she were right, perhaps whatever curse had reignited would fall on him. At this point in Harry's life, he was hardly running from the final curtain call. To be fair, he'd embrace an easy end.

"My great grand-son is starting Hogwarts this year," he said. "I don't talk to that one much. Well, I don't talk to anyone much these days. No one wants to hear me wax on about the glory days."

Hermione snorted. "I try not to talk about the old days. Our actions have been reduced to history texts."

"It's fine for you to say that. You've gained significance with the years."

"Harry, please," she said again.

"Can I live in Hagrid's cottage?"

She laughed, relief flooding into her voice. "It's been abandoned for decades. You'll have your work cut out for you if you plan to restore it."

"Did you know I would give in?"

"I hoped."

"Do you have any idea what's behind the deaths?"

She sighed and collapsed into the sofa beside Harry and buried her head in her hands. Her hair had gone white, with only a few strands of auburn left, and it curled rebelliously around her fingers. "I have no idea. They just appear to be random coincidences. But they aren't. They can't be. The world doesn't work like that."

He nodded. "I'm surprised you don't have a few ideas."

"So am I. I need a man on the ground. I can never trust the young teachers, well not fully, not like I trust you. I'm certain we can figure it out, if we work together."

"I need to put a few affairs in order first. I should be able to arrange it so that I arrive a week before the term starts."

"That would be fine, Harry. I'm just so glad you've agreed."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1, Glissinda**

Glissinda sipped her Butter Beer. She was sitting under an eve on the newly constructed Hog's Head patio. It was far too hot to sit directly in the sun, but it was lovely to be outside. She turned back to book she had borrowed from Hogwart's library, and as she turned the page she had to blow out the dust that had accumulated in the crease from years of neglect. It was a history of Rowena Ravenclaw. One of the better ones, she had decided about halfway through. She wondered for a moment how to incorporate parts of it into one of her History lectures. Feeling a slight breeze, Glissinda looked up, to see a man in the process of apparating. It was such a funny thing to see. She never got tired of watching the fuzzy fading in. She tended to avoid it as a means of transportation herself, though. Too risky.

As the details of the man became clear, a note of familiarity that suggested she should know him struck Glissinda. He was old - likely as old as Head Mistress Granger. He swept aside a long untidy beard with a heavily wrinkled hand. His other hand was holding the handle of a wheeled trunk. It looked like the old style trunk that used to be fashionable for students. She set aside her book and approached him.

"Would you like some help?" She asked.

He eyed her carefully. "No."

"You sure? The trunk looks heavy," she offered again.

He sighed. "I take it I look so decrepit that I can't manage it."

She smirked. "Yes."

He laughed. "All right then." He dropped the handle, and the trunk clanged to the ground.

She took up the handle and dragged the trunk up a long ramp, and into the dingy innards of Hog's Head. She tended to stick to the patio when she visited. The inside of Hog's Head was dreary.

The old man hobbled after her, and she hid a grin. She was right of offer assistance. He would never have managed on his own.

Inside she dropped the trunk next to the small bar. A small cloud of dirt erupted as it hit the floor. Glissinda wondered if the floor had ever had a good washing.

"I have a reservation," the old man grunted, when the skinny bartender finally noticed them and ambled over from his seat at one of the benches by the grubby bay window.

"Name?"

"Potter," the old man said. "One night."

"Potter?" Glissinda asked, a knot forming in her stomach. "You're not related to Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?" Her hand drifted up to nervously play with one of the white gold curls that had slipped from the knot on the top of her head.

The old man offered a mumbled grunt in response.

The bartender didn't seem to recognize the name. At least he didn't act impressed. He just handed the old man a long brass key, and ambled back over to the benches.

Glissinda took a look at the key. It was engraved with a scrolling number three. That room was on the second floor.

"I'll help you get your trunk to your room, if you give me a straight answer."

The old man glared at her.

"Are you or are you not the Harry Potter?"

"Yes, I'm him," he grunted.

"Wow," she gushed. "You haven't been sighted in ages. I tried to find you once when I was writing my thesis. My subject was Lord Voldemort. I wanted to interview you. You were impossible to find. Your son, Albus, gave me an interview though. He was very nice." She paused, catching her breath. "What are you doing here?"

He closed his eyes. "I suppose you won't help me with my trunk unless I tell you."

"You're seeing things my way. All's fair," she said grinning.

"I'm on my way to Hogwarts. I'll be catching the train in the morning."

"Hogwarts? Why?"

"I'm the new Defense against the Dark Arts Professor."

Glissinda couldn't quite prevent her face from going white. "But..." she stumbled.

"You can't. Oh, I didn't mean that." Her face went from white to red.

Harry clasped his hand on her shoulder. "I know I look too old to teach."

"It's not that," she said. "It's a dangerous position these days."

"Ah, you've been reading the Quibbler - all that nonsense about a curse. You shouldn't worry about me. I realize I look feeble, but I'm quite capable. And about the bag, I think I'll manage on my own."

He pulled a long gnarled wand from a pocket in his hooded robe and tapped the trunk, which levitated off the ground, and followed Harry as he carefully made his way up the stairs to the second floor.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2, Fynn**

Fynn placed two sickles into the palm of the conductor of the Hogwarts Express. "One for Hogwarts," he said with a wide toothy smile.

"Fynn Morrigan!" The conductor exclaimed. "My god. I saw you at the world cup. It was sure something. You're a maniac on a broom."

Fynn kept up the smile, but it was forced. "Thanks. That means a lot."

"I was sorry to hear about..." the conductor's voice trailed off, and he looked away.

Fynn's smile was frozen. He should be used to those well-meant sympathetic looks and comments by now, but it was still hard.

"Don't mention it. I'm on to bigger and better things."

"Of course, of course."

Fynn walked down the cooridor, and slipped into a passenger carriage. There was an old man slumped in a seat, looking out of the window. Fynn considered looking for an empty carriage, but decided against it. There was no time like the present for making friends with the other teachers.

He sat down opposite the old man. "This is my first time on this train since I was a kid. Do you think the trolley will come? I could go for some chocolate frogs."

Harry tried not to smile at the comment. He had been wondering the same thing. The man who had joined him - well he looked more like a boy than a man - was broad shouldered and tall with disheveled auburn hair. He looked more like an athlete or one of those muggle movie stars than an academic. Harry put a finger up to straighten his glasses. "I wouldn't know. I haven't been on this train for a long time either."

"Oh. Aren't you a Professor?"

"This will be my first term."

"No kidding." Fynn smiled. "It's my first term too. What will you be teaching?"

Harry wondered if he could find a way to end this conversation, but the boy seemed determined, and there was something almost contagious about the boy's eagerness.

"Defense against the Dark Arts," Harry answered.

"Oh. You must be a really good wizard. That's a hard class."

The boy was seeming younger and younger with every word. Or maybe Harry was just old. "And you? What subject has Hermione roped you into teaching?"

"Divination."

"Really?" That surprised Harry for two reasons. The first was that the boy looked nothing like the sort who should teach Divination. Harry had a fixed idea in his mind that Divination teachers had to dress like and possess the unearthly air of a gypsy. The second reason was that he had suspected that once Hermione had a firm hand on the school that she would have eliminated Divination as a subject. She had hated those classes more than he had.

Fynn nodded. "Yeah. Head Mistress Granger asked me if I'd take the position. It was a surprise. I was a pretty terrible student."

Fynn had been holed up in St. Mungo's for almost two months after the world cup. There was nothing they could do. They couldn't manage to repair his left hand - not fully. He couldn't form a strong grip. His Quiddich career was over. His coach had kindly offered to let him stay on in an advisory capacity and work with the new lot of hot shots, get them on their feet, but the idea had made him miserable. Several days after his coach visited, the Minister of Magic had shown up and offered him a position at the Ministry. But, Fynn wasn't a fool, he knew the only reason that the minister wanted him was because he was a famous face. They might not even know the horrible truth - or maybe they knew and didn't care. Either way, if he ended up at the Ministry, he would have ended up an embarrassment to everyone.

"I struggled with the tea leaves and the crystal balls, when I was in school," Harry admitted.

"Me too," Fynn agreed. "I don't really believe in any of that."

Harry arched a thick white eyebrow. "Do you think it might be challenging to teach the class if you don't believe in it?"

"Probably. Head Mistress Granger said we'd change the format a bit. Maybe that will help."

"Perhaps."

Harry made an internal note to question Hermione about this boy and her plans for Divination. He didn't want to be curious, but he couldn't help it.

Fynn let his head sink into the cushion. "I have to admit, I think there's a fairly good chance that this won't work out for me."

Harry nodded. "It sounds like we're in the same boat, kid. I'm not overly optimistic about lasting as a teacher myself."

They lapsed into silence. Fynn tried to think of another conversation opener, but what could he possibly have in common with this man? Fynn's only talent was Quiddich, and the wizard looked too old to ride a broom. Fynn's father had always been up for a talk about Quiddich. Fynn closed his eyes. Fynn's father - his only family member still living - hadn't visited the hospital once. Fynn wasn't really surprised. His father had been nice to him once he had proven himself to be a Quiddich star, but Fynn could never quite forget that he used to call him a useless squib when he was a boy. The worst part about it was that he was squib. He couldn't use a wand to save his life. Fynn remembered the fear that had coursed through him during the middle of his first year, when old Head Mistress Goyle had died, and Head Mistress Granger had taken her place. Goyle had been totally daft, and had started letting squibs into the school if their parents complained about them not getting their letter. Fynn was certain that his father had complained to Goyle, and forced her to let him in. So when Fynn was called to Head Mistress Granger's office he had packed his bags in advance. But she hadn't told him to leave. She had just asked him how things were going, and that she hoped he was happy at Hogwarts. He had been tempted to tell her the truth, tell her that he wasn't a wizard. But two weeks later, they brought out the brooms, and Fynn found his place. He could ride like no other, and it had made it okay that he wasn't really a wizard.

When Head Mistress Granger had showed up at Saint Mungo's and offered him a position at Hogwarts, he had been certain she must be one of his teammates using Polyjuice potion. He had laughed at her. Laughed so hard that he had cried.

She just sat there, while he laughed, her face hard as stone. None of his friends could have kept up the straight face that long. That's how he had known that it was really her.

"Why? I'm a rubbish wizard. That's putting it mildly, I guess. I know I'm a squib. You can't pretend not to know."

Hermione sighed, and placed her large bag down by her feet and took a seat next to his bed. "You're not a squib."

He arched an eyebrow. "Yes. I am. Now that I don't have Quiddich, I'll have to be an accountant or something like that."

"I threw out all of the squibs when I took my office. It was the right thing to do. Hard at the time. But the right thing."

"When you called me to your office, during my first year. I thought you knew. I thought you were going to boot me too."

"That had been my intention."

"Why didn't you do it? What stopped you?"

She smiled grimly. "Before I could break the news, you stood, your voice changed and you prophesized the death of the minister, and a long hard battle to replace him. You didn't remember saying it at the time, but I have it recorded. I checked your background. You're a Trelawney on your mother's side. You're a seer. You've made a number of other prophecies since then."

"That's not possible. I would know."

"No you wouldn't. Generally seers don't remember prophecies. And I've spelled you so that others that hear your prophecies forget them too. It's troublesome, to have to follow you around. It would make my life considerably easier if you were safe at Hogwarts, where I can keep an eye on you."

Fynn thought he would vomit. This was all very strange.

"Even if you're right," he said. "That still doesn't mean I'm fit to teach. I was a terrible student."

"I've changed the format of Divination classes quite a bit. There's only one class, held on Friday mornings. I only take the best and the brightest sixth and seventh years. And they have to request the class. The purpose of the class, thus far, has been to try to sift through the all of lies, and find the truth about Divination. The only problem has been that I've never had a real seer in the class. So it's all theory. You would be our guinea pig. As far as I'm aware, you're the only true seer alive today. We need you."

"It sounds awful."

"I haven't gotten to the carrot yet. You'll also teach the students how to ride brooms, and coach the Hufflepuff Quiddich team. You understand, I'm sure, how important it is to students to learn how to ride, how much it will mean to them to have a star Quiddich player as a teacher. I remember a young boy, who's life changed when he first held a broom. I think you'll be perfect."

Fynn closed his eyes. "I don't really have a choice do I."

She shook her head. "No, you don't."

Fynn nodded and offered a toothy grin. "Well," he said, ever the optimist. "It's got to be better than accounting."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3, Sophie**

As Sophie carefully crushed a handful of fluxweed into a fine powder with the stone pestle, a bead of sweat formed on her temple. She placed a small sheet of laminate paper onto a digital scale and then pressed the tare button. After the scale's digital readout settled on zero, she ladled a teaspoon full of crushed fluxweed onto the laminate sheet, the scale read 3.58 grams, she removed a few grains, until the scale hit 3.5 grams precisely after which she dutifully noted the weight in her book. She had gone to the metric system years ago, and had even gone so far as to update some her favorite potions texts against the guidance of her peers who specialized in alchemical wizardry.

The click clack of heels and a high-pitched giggle interrupted Sophie as she started the process of slowly stirring the powder into a bubbling cauldron. Luckily she was just able to prevent herself from jumping at the sound and messing up the procedure.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me, Gliss." Sophie didn't even need to look up to identify the intruder.

"Someone has to bring some excitement into your dreary laboratory." Glissinda pulled the chair away from the desk set in the corner of the room and flopped into it. "Are you going to waste the entire summer in here making potions?"

"You know I don't have a choice. I have to restock Herbology, the hospital wing room, Mistress Granger, and some of the other professors. I don't have the luxury of fiddling around all summer. Once the students return, I won't have any time for really complex potions."

"But making potions is sooo boring."

"Only to you."

"Well, I have news. You will never believe who will be taking over Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"I take it you ran it our new professor in Hogsmeade." Sophie eyed the cauldron carefully, before placing a heavy iron lid over it and setting a timer on her watch for eight hours. After removing and discarding her latex gloves, she rested against the desk facing Gliss.

"I spent yesterday in town reading, and he just showed up. He had taken a room at Hog's Head."

"I'm surprised you didn't tell me yesterday."

"I couldn't find you yesterday."

"So, are you going to keep me in suspense?"

Glissinda tossed her golden curls over her shoulder. "Harry Potter. Mistress Granger somehow convinced the Harry Potter to resurface from wherever he's been hiding."

Sophie removed her glasses, which had fogged a bit under the humidity of the laboratory. The name didn't immediately ring a bell.

Glissinda sighed. "You remember the stories about Harry Potter. Don't be difficult."

"Yes, yes, of course. I do remember. All of that with 'he who shall not be named' was so long ago. I remember there was some entry about him in one of our history tests. No wonder you're excited. I'm surprised this Harry Potter fellow is still alive."

"Well no one's seen him in years. He went into hiding shortly after his wife disappeared on some expedition to Romania. It had something to do with Dragons I think. I'll have to go back and read the old papers."

"You don't think it would be kinder to let the man keep his secrets."

Gliss's lips twitched. "Hardly."

Gliss was such an odd girl. And their friendship - if one could call it that - was such a bizarre part of Sophie's life. They had met in their first year as students. Sophie Zabini, the shy dark bookworm, as a pure blood, had been placed into the Slytherin house almost before the sorting hat hit her head. So there was really no reason that she should have had any relationship at all with the bubbly blond beauty queen who had been placed into Ravenclaw and who just happened to be a mudblood. But, to Sophie's horror, despite their entire class adoring Glissinda, Glissinda had decided to attach herself, not unlike a leach, to Sophie. Gliss had even gone so far as to invite herself home with Sophie every summer for two weeks. Sophie's mother had warned her and her older brothers to be careful to be polite to mudbloods, even if the other Slytherins were outspoken against them, the Zabini's would toe the line. After the warning, her mother had filled their heads with the stories of ancestors who had been brutally killed and those who had been left alive - mostly children - were stripped of their lands and fortunes for taking the wrong side in Voldemort's war. And Sophie's mother was determined that the Zabini's would not relive such indignities. Therefore, her prime directive when entering school was to be polite to the mudbloods. Her older brothers had succeeded with minimal effort. But, when it was Sophie's turn she had been faced with Glissinda. During the first summer that Glissinda had come to visit, her mother had treated Glissinda with almost sickening sweetness, and after Glissinda left, her mother had nearly explosed. "Polite does not mean inviting one into our house!" Her mother had shrieked at her, causing her older brothers to crack up in laughter. But, even though, they had found the whole thing hysterical, they had come to her defense, and had assured her mother that it wasn't Sophie's fault, and that the girl, Glissinda, had invited herself. As the years passed, Sophie tried to distance herself from Gliss, but it had proven impossible. Her only reprieve had been the two years she had spend in America, studying Potions under an American master after she had completed her final year at Hogwarts.

"Earth to Sophie," Glissinda said, interrupting Sophie's train of thought. "Let's go to the kitchens and get something to eat."

"I'll meet you there. I need to clean up a bit in here. You know I can't stand leaving a mess."

Glissinda shrugged. "Okay, but don't wait too long. You know how the house-elves can get if you miss lunch too often. They'll fill your quarters with food."


End file.
